"Let me guess," Will said, as Halt paused. "These symptoms were identical to the ones his ancestor suffered in the legend?"
Halt pointed a finger at the younger man. "Got it in one," he said "Which of course gave rise to the rumors that Malkallam was back."
"Malkallam?" Will asked.
"The original sorcerer," Crowley put in. "Nobody knows where the rumors started, but there have been other… manifestations as well. Lights in the forest that disappear when anyone approaches, strange figures seen on the road at night, voices heard in the castle and so on. The sort of things calculated to scare the living daylights out of country people. The local Ranger, Meralon, has been trying to get hold of more information, but people have clammed up. He did hear some rumor about a sorcerer living deep in the forest, and the name Malkallam was used. But exactly where he was living he couldn't find out."
"Who's commanding the castle while Syron is out of action?" Will asked. Halt nodded, appreciating Will's ability to get to the heart of the problem.
"Syron's son, Orman, is nominally in charge, but he's not really a soldier. According to Meralon's report, he's something of a scholar-and more interested in studying history than guarding the kingdom's borders. Fortunately, Syron's nephew Keren is also there and he's taken practical command of the garrison. He's more down to earth. He was raised as a warrior and apparently he's a popular leader."
"He can handle things for the time being," Crowley said, "but if Syron should die, then we have the problem of succession, and Orman, a weak, incapable leader, will inherit the position. That could destabilize the whole situation and leave us vulnerable to an attack from the north. That's something we have to avoid at all costs. Macindaw is too important strategically for us to take any risks."
Will tugged thoughtfully at his chin for a few seconds.
"I see," he said finally. "So what do you want me to do?"
"Go up there," Crowley replied. "Get to know the locals. Find out as much as you can. See what you can gather about this Malkallam character. See whether he really exists or whether people are just imagining things. Gain their confidence. Get them talking."
Will frowned. Crowley made it all sound so easy, he thought. "That's easier said than done," he muttered, but Halt replied with just the ghost of a smile.
"It'll be easier for you than for most," he said. "People like to talk to you. You're young. You have a fresh-faced innocent look that disarms them. That's why we chose you. They'll never suspect you're a Ranger."
"So what will they think I am?" Will asked, and now the grin finally broke through on Halt's face.
"They'll think you're a jongleur," he said.
12
"A jongleur?" he repeated. "Me?"
Halt looked at him from under dark eyebrows. "A jongleur. You," he said. Will made a helpless gesture with his hands, for a moment lost for words.
"It's a perfect cover for you," Crowley said. "Jongleurs are constantly traveling. They're welcome everywhere, from castles to the meanest tavern. And in a godforsaken spot like Norgate, you'll be doubly welcome. Best of all, people talk to jongleurs. And they talk in front of them," he added, meaningfully.
Will finally found the words he had been looking for. "Aren't we forgetting one small detail?" he said. "I'm not a jongleur. I can't tell jokes. I can't do magic tricks and I can't tumble. I'd break my neck if I tried."
Halt nodded, acknowledging the point. "Aren't you forgetting that there are different types of jongleurs?" he said. "Some of them are simple minstrels."
"And you play that lute of yours quite well, Halt tells me," Crowley put in. Will looked at him, the confusion growing.
"It's a mandola," he said. "It has eight strings, tuned in pairs. A lute has ten strings with some of them acting as drones…"
He tailed off. Then he felt a small glow of pleasure as he registered what Crowley had said.
"Do you really think I play well enough?" he said to Halt. The older Ranger had always assumed a long-suffering expression whenever Will had practiced the mandola. Will couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction to hear that he actually admired his skill. The sense was short-lived, however.
"What would I know?" Halt replied with a shrug. "One cat screeching sounds pretty much like another to me."
"Oh," said Will, more than a little deflated. "Well, perhaps other people are likely to be more discriminating. Can't we find some other disguise for me?" he appealed to Crowley. The Ranger Commandant shrugged in his turn, willing to entertain suggestions.
"Such as?" he asked. Will cast around in his mind before an answer came to him.
"A tinker," he suggested. After all, in the adventures and legends that Murdal, Baron Arald's official storyteller, used to recite at Castle Redmont, heroes often disguised themselves as tinkers. Halt snorted disdainfully.
"A tinker?" Crowley asked.
"Yes," said Will, warming to his theme. "They travel around from place to place. People talk to them and-"
"And they are renowned as petty thieves," Crowley finished for him. "Do you think it's a good idea to assume a disguise that ensures that everyone you meet is immediately suspicious of you? They'd be watching you like hawks, waiting for you to steal the cutlery."
"Thieves?" Will said, crestfallen. "Are they really?"
"They're notorious for it," Halt said. "I've never understood why that boring idiot Murdal used to insist that his characters disguised themselves as tinkers. Couldn't think of a worse idea, myself"
"Oh," said Will, now bereft of ideas. He hesitated, then asked again, "Do you really think my playing's good enough to carry it off?"
"One way to find out," Crowley said. "You've got your lute there. Let's have a tune from it."
"It's not a…" Will began, then gave up as he reached behind him for the mandola case, where it lay on top of his saddle and other kit.
"Never mind," he muttered.
He took the instrument from its case and removed the tortoise-shell pick from between the two top strings. He strummed experimentally. As he had expected, the combination of bouncing around on a packsaddle and the effect of the cool night air had affected the tuning. He adjusted the strings, tried another chord and nodded, satisfied. Then he sounded the chord again, decided that the top string was a little sharp and loosened it a fraction. Better, he thought.
"Away you go." Crowley made an encouraging gesture. Will sounded an A chord, then hesitated. He went blank. He couldn't think of a single tune to play. He tried a D chord and then an E minor and a B flat, hoping that the sounds might give him some aspiration.
"Are there words to this tune?" Halt asked, far too politely. Will turned to him.
"I can't think of a song," he said. "My mind's gone blank."
"Could be embarrassing if that happened in a rough tavern" Halt said. Will tried desperately to remember a song. Any song.
"How about Old Joe Smoke?" Crowley suggested cheerfully, and Halt whipped around to glare suspiciously at him.
"Old Joe Smoke?" Will asked. It was, of course, the song that he had turned into a parody about Halt, and he wondered if Crowley knew that. The Ranger's face was innocent of guile, however. He nodded, smiling encouragement, ignoring the glare from his old friend.